


Take a Deep Breath

by glennjaminhow



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Asthma, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Hospitals, Sick Character, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: "He doesn’t have this problem a lot. He can go weeks at a time without a flare up. If he’s in the car with Bill while they’re on the road, he rolls the window down, and he’s fine. But it’s different during the winter."
Relationships: Holden Ford & Bill Tench
Comments: 33
Kudos: 140





	1. The Flare Up

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a request from Rococoa, seconded by sheepishwxlves and theChromiumFail. 
> 
> Thank you for the LOVELY prompt!

_**QUANTICO, VIRGINIA** _  
_**FEBRUARY 9, 1978** _

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

Holden flinches and glances over his shoulder. Bill hovers over him, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. His tie is missing, and the first two notches of his shirt are undone beneath his sport coat. Holden scowls when he spies the cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He hunches in on himself and returns his attention to the case file. Bill rounds the corner and sits on the corner of Holden’s desk.

“It’s only six,” he replies softly.

Bill chuckles. “Forgive me. I forgot who I was talking to.”

Holden rolls his eyes.

Instead of feeding into Bill’s lines of bullshit, Holden re-reads the same sentence four times and still doesn’t understand what it’s saying.

They’re fresh off the Beverly Jean Shaw case. They interview Jerry Brudos next week. In the meantime, Wendy’s got them looking into a man named Kelvin Rogers, husband, father of three, and murderer of twelve. Holden’s been reading into his past and, so far, he’s found nothing that indicates how a man becomes a sequence killer. Rogers, now 53, was born into a good home. A hardworking father and a doting mother. An older brother who looked out for him. He married at 20 and had three children within the decade. Everything seemed normal.

Except for the fact that Rogers had been slaughtering college girls all over the state of Kentucky since 1959.

Bill reaches over and shuts the manila folder. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

Holden blinks. His reaction time slow, he doesn’t say anything when Bill leaves the desk and tosses him his coat. He clears his throat several times and inhales deeply. He doesn’t want to go home, not with this hanging over his head. Debbie is still at school, and his apartment is empty, and he can’t quite figure out why he feels so lethargic. The idea of getting up makes him nauseous. He wonders if he can reason with Bill on staying here.

“You’re thinking too hard again, kid. Kelvin Rogers will still be here in the morning.”

“I just want to –”

“Shh. It’s okay. We’ll look at it together tomorrow, alright?”

Holden nods. Slowly, he stands up. His world blackens momentarily. He clears his throat again.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

He shrugs. “Breakfast, I guess.”

“No wonder you look like shit. Let’s go get some chow.”

Holden sighs. Maybe he does want to go home. “I dunno, Bill. I just want to –”

“We can talk about Rogers tomorrow. I know you’re hyperfixated because it’s new and interesting, but there’s no use in stressing yourself out like this.”

Bill blows a cloud of smoke into the room. Holden closes his eyes and groans internally. He fumbles for the ‘L shaped’ container in his pocket, latching on to it tightly. He can’t use it. Not here. It’s not like Bill would stop if he knew. He can’t expect Bill to stop smoking just because of him.

“Nancy makes a mean BLT.”

Holden could barf. Not at Nancy or her BLTs, but food sounds like a dangerous gamble. There’s a knot in his throat that won’t go away.

“Okay, Bill. Let me use the bathroom first.”

Bill and Holden take the elevator to the main floor. Holden scurries away from Bill without a word, hurrying toward the bathroom. The moment the door is closed and locked, Holden takes his inhaler out and inhales two puffs of Fenoterol as if his life depends on it, which, really it sort of does; no one wants to see him have an attack, especially not Bill. He leans his head back against the stall and focuses on regulating his breathing. He coughs. His nose runs.

He doesn’t have this problem a lot. He can go weeks at a time without a flare up. If he’s in the car with Bill while they’re on the road, he rolls the window down, and he’s fine. But it’s different during the winter. He doesn’t want to insult Bill because his choices are his choices, but Bill doesn’t roll down the window when it’s cold out, and Holden doesn’t feel like he can. He hates smelling like smoke and really hates what smoke does to his lungs, but he feels… strange about the whole thing. It’s been months. He should’ve spoken up by now.

It’s embarrassing. Not only does he have a fair dose of anxiety, but people think he’s a freak. He was bullied from a young age, and asthma didn’t do him any favors. His father used to hide his inhalers. Holden would sob, and his mother would hold him, telling to calm down, to breathe deeply, to stop crying because it’ll just make it worse. He’s never told anyone at the Bureau about it, so why would he tell Bill? Debbie doesn’t even know.

No one needs to know.

But, at times like these, he wishes he had the courage to roll down the window. To take a few steps away from Bill while he smokes right beside him. To roll away from Debbie when she tokes – cigarettes or marijuana – in bed.

Still, really, it’s not a big deal. No. It’s not. He’s okay. It’s fine.

Holden takes an extra puff just in case, chest tingling and on fire. He shoves the inhaler in his slacks. He coughs several times while washing his hands. His lungs are tight, constricted. He wants to go home. Needs a hot shower. Needs to be away from the smoke and cold weather. He wants to call it ‘overexposure,’ but he’s not sure there’s such a thing. It’s very likely all in his head. But he doesn’t want to bother Bill, not when he just invited him over for dinner.

So, he shoves the aching chest and thoughts of Kelvin Rogers from his mind. He exits the bathroom to find Bill standing by the water fountain.

“Ready, Kemosabe?”

Holden nods.

They hit the road. It’s snowing fat, fluffy flakes. Bill lights another cigarette two minutes into the drive. Holden’s stomach folds in on itself, and he clenches his jaw so tightly he almost breaks a few of his teeth. He clears his throat. It’s a technique that normally works, but it’s not working today, and Holden just wants to go home.

But he can’t ruin his chances with Bill. Bill is letting him in, little by little each and everyday. Holden’s never had a friend before. He hopes Bill can be his first.

“You good?”

Holden nods, giving him a small, flat smile.

By the time they pull into the driveway, Holden’s cheeks are bright red from holding in his coughs. The winter air hurts his lungs and head, but he lets out a few splutters into his elbow while they walk up the driveway without Bill noticing. He just wants to make it through this dinner without anything going wrong.

Once he’s inside, Nancy takes his coat.

“Oh, Holden! It’s so nice to see you again!”

She hugs him, and he reciprocates.

Bill mumbles something about changing. Nancy goes back into the kitchen. Unsure if he should follow her and offer to help, Holden instead sits on the couch, soaking in the opportunity to let his chest rattle with no one around to hear. Brian sits on the floor in front of the TV with his Lincoln Logs. Holden almost asks if he can play too, but his head spins, and his stomach swirls, and his chest hurts so badly that there are spots in his vision.

“Hey, want a drink?” Bill offers; Holden jumps.

Holden nods. Bill brings out some scotch and two glasses. He watches with bleary eyes as Bill pours the liquid.

The scotch helps. The instant burn soothes his throat. It makes him forget for just a second.

Holden and Bill watch the news in silence. Holden fiddles with his tie until he gives in, loosening it and unbuttoning the top notch of his shirt. His skin is made out of blistering flames. He clears his throat over and over again, sinking into the couch until he’s practically melted against it. He lets his eyes droop closed.

“Dinner’s ready,” Nancy announces.

Holden blinks and goes to the kitchen table.

He doesn’t even get a chance to look at the food before he realizes that Nancy and Bill are both smoking.

And he almost hesitates before he sits down. He wants to leave. He doesn’t know why his asthma is flaring up this badly. But his skin hurts, and his chest is full of knives, and he needs to cough. He needs to cough. He needs to cough.

“Holden, are you okay?”

He snaps out of it.

Bill’s eyes are a little wide, and Nancy is staring a hole right through him.

He’s about to speak when it happens.

A bout of sharp, rattling coughs escapes his mouth, running away as if they own the place. He covers his mouth quickly with a napkin, but he can’t stop. Won’t stop. Doesn’t stop. Each time he tries to cut them off, they break free. He doubles over and throws up what little he’s eaten on the floor and a little bit on his slacks and right shoe. He inhales deeply, but a hacking noise fills the room. Saliva pools on his pants. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe and oh God Nancy’s going to hate him and Bill’s going to hate him even more he was supposed to get through dinner without a hitch go home take a hot shower and go to sleep he should’ve been fine in the morning but his chest is in knots and he doesn’t feel –

“Hey. Shh… It’s okay, Holden,” he hears.

Delicate hands are on his shoulders.

Tears stream down his cheeks. He can’t breathe.

Something cold is on his face. He hiccups.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

The voice reminds him of his mother’s.

“Inhaler,” he squeaks out. He can barely speak.

“You have asthma?”

Two voices. Not one. Two.

Holden nods.

“Where’s it at, kiddo?”

Hands trembling terribly, he clumsily yanks at the inhaler until it comes out of his pocket. He tries to bring it to his lips. But he can’t. He keeps coughing.

“I think you just press down,” he hears.

The tip of the inhaler is in his mouth. Cool, metallic air hits the back of his throat. He inhales quickly. Deeply. He needs more. The inhaler seems to understand because more is released, and he lets the medicine drape over him like a warm blanket. He coughs and hastily wipes at his eyes. His stomach still doesn’t feel right, but he gathers enough strength to open his eyes.

Nancy is right beside him, inhaler in her hand. She looks bewildered, as if she just saw a ghost, and maybe she did. Holden doesn’t know. Bill stares intensely from the other side of him. Holden wonders how disappointed he is. How irritated he is. How badly he wants Holden to leave his house. Brian is looking at him too, a French fry still in his hand. Holden’s cheeks redden. He tries to speak, but only small, hushed noises come out.

“Relax, honey. Take a minute to breathe,” Nancy says.

Holden immediately looks down at his lap. He wrings his fingers together. He nearly hitches forward toward the floor, but Bill stops him, a firm hand against his chest.

“I-I want to go home,” Holden manages to whisper, voice giving away near the end.

“No way, kid.”

“Absolutely not, sweetie. You’re going to lie down in our guest room for a while, and get some rest.”

Holden rapidly shakes his head. He coughs a few more times. “I’m fine.”

“You sound horrible,” Nancy says.

“You could drown in all the gunk you have in your chest.”

Holden pouts. “I just want to go home.”

“Bill, why don’t you find him some pajamas. I’m going to clean him up a bit.”

And Holden is powerless to it all. He doesn’t have an ounce of energy left in his body. He doesn’t say anything when Nancy washes his face with a wet cloth and does the same to the spots on his slacks and shoe. Embarrassment and shame run deep through his veins, straight into the bone. So much for nobody knowing. Bill comes back with a set of pajamas in hand, along with a spare toothbrush.

“Come on, kid. Let’s get you changed.”

Bill helps him stand up. His knees shake, and his legs wobble so much he knows he wouldn’t make it to the bathroom unless Bill were there, walking with him slowly.

“Need help in there?” Bill asks.

Holden shakes his head.

The pajamas are light blue and way too big. The sleeves dangle past his fingertips, and the pants go past his toes. He feels like a massively overgrown baby. He brushes his teeth, coughing and spluttering as he moves the toothbrush around. His throat is swollen. His brain is trying to kick its way out of his skull. He wants to go home. He doesn’t want to be a burden, and that’s exactly what he is. He should just… go. He didn’t want anyone to know, and now they do, and that’s bad enough. Tears swell in his eyes and stream down his cheeks, but he wipes them away hastily.

He breathes. In and out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

And he’s okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll rest in their guest room for a couple hours, until his chest stops hurting so much, and then he’ll go home. He’ll go to bed. He’ll wake up the next morning and go to work, and Bill will know. Bill will always know.

“Holden?” he hears.

“Coming,” he rasps.

Holden gathers his slacks and button up in a small pile. He’ll iron them after he washes them later. He exits the bathroom and clicks off the light. Bill instantly takes his clothes from him. Holden goes to say something, but words fail.

“Nancy’s gonna wash them,” he says. “She’ll iron them too. Don’t worry.”

Bill ushers him down the hall. Holden shuffles his feet. He can barely keep his eyes open. He doesn’t feel well at all after attacks, obviously, but this is different. He’s more tired than he remembers being in a long time, and there’s something not clicking with how sore his entire body feels. He wants to be at home, where he can take some Tylenol and curl up in his bed without wondering what Bill thinks of him now that he’s screwed everything to hell.

The guest room is tiny and reminds Holden of his apartment in the sense that the room is void of decorations. There is a single queen-sized bed, complete with a white, flowery comforter and fluffy pillows. The mattress looks thick and inviting, and Holden shivers at the thought of lying down. A nightstand with a lamp sits beside the bed. There’s a dresser near the left corner. Holden hacks into his elbow and sways on his feet.

He looks at Bill, and Bill nudges him to get into bed. Holden peels the comforter back and sits on the edge. The mattress is pure heaven from what he can feel.

“Lay down, kid,” Bill says gently.

Holden’s never heard him be like this before.

He glances away and lies down. Without warning, Bill pulls the blankets over him and up to his chin. Holden shrivels in on himself at the sudden intimacy of the gesture. Bill is mad. Bill is disappointed. Bill doesn’t want to do this for him. Honestly, he doesn’t even know if Bill likes him. As much trouble as Holden’s gotten them into and as much as Holden already knows he irritates Bill, he knows Bill wants nothing to do with him after this.

“Bill, I –”

But Bill is already by the door. Holden coughs and hiccups and coughs again.

“Get some rest.”

The light turns off, the door clicks closed, and Holden is left alone.

* * *

Holden blinks heavily.

It’s pitch black.

A fierce, stabbing ache holds each and every one of his joints hostage.

He goes to sit up, to shake off this horrid drowning sensation, only to cough wetly the instant he tries. His chest still hurts.

And he remembers earlier. Having an asthma attack in front of Bill and Nancy.

Fuck him.

He’s so hot. He’s sticky and sweaty, and he kicks the comforter away. He breathes, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Exhaling makes him cough. He drags a hand over his cheeks, runs his fingers through his hair, kneads the flesh around his skull. He groans and hiccups, and his lungs are so full; they’re going to drip blood any second. He chokes back a sob and focuses on the next course of action.

He has to get out of here.

Without any concept of time, Holden gets out of bed and mentally tries to pull himself together.

He tiptoes out of the guest room and into the hallway. Light emanates from the living room. He wanders down there, stomach at his feet. He coughs into his elbow.

Bill notices him the instant Holden steps out of the shadows.

“You should be in bed,” Bill says.

Holden rubs the back of his neck. “I’m feeling a lot better…”

Nancy turns around from her spot on the couch. “You’re still really pale.”

“I’m a white male. I’m pale all the time,” he deadpans.

“Go lay back down.”

An order. A command.

"I’ve already troubled you both enough for one night. I really am okay. Thank you for the hospitality, but I’d like to get my clothes.”

“Holden, I really don’t think that’s a good –”

Nancy steps in. “Bill, if he says he’s okay, we have to let him go. We can’t hold him hostage because of this.”

She goes to retrieve his clothes. Holden avoids eye contact and tries very hard not to cough anymore. Coughing makes him appear weak. He can’t be weak right now. He is dizzy and shaky, and he wants to sleep for a full day without waking up once, but he can’t be a nuisance. A burden. He doesn’t want to put Bill and Nancy out more than he already has.

Plus, Bill hasn’t even talked about it. The asthma. He has to be wondering why Holden kept it from him.

And Holden is not prepared to have that conversation right now.

Mucus rattles in his chest as Nancy hands him his clothes.

Quickly, Holden changes in the bathroom. He gives up the oversized pajamas for his slacks and button up. They are freshly ironed, just like Bill said they would be. Nancy didn’t have to do that. She didn’t have to go out of her way for him. Holden ignores the urge to curl up on the bathroom floor, ignores the urge to go lie back down in the guestroom like this never happened, ignores the urge to apologize profusely to Bill for being irritating and a burden.

Bill has his shoes and coat on by the time Holden comes back into the living room. He glances away from Bill’s eye contact sheepishly.

The ride to Holden’s apartment is silent, save for a few rattling breaths.

Bill isn’t talking to him.

He doesn’t understand why, but maybe he does. He hid his asthma.

But he hid it to not criticize Bill for his choices. Who knows? Maybe Bill picked up a bad habit during the war, or even before, but he can’t quit now. Holden doesn’t judge. He doesn’t want to give Bill anymore of a reason to dislike him than he already does.

Bill pulls into the apartment complex lot.

Holden inhales, fully intent on explaining, expelling the truth and saying sorry until he’s blue in the face.

“Goodnight, Holden.”

He flinches. Gulps. Glances down at his hands.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Goodnight, Bill.”

He gets out of the car and takes the elevator to the fifth floor. He unlocks the door. He kicks his shoes off. He curls up in a ball on the couch, a red and blue blanket pulled up to his chin. He coughs until his cheeks tinge red, until he’s convinced he’ll never take a proper breath again, until he is less of a nuisance, until he Bill isn’t mad at him anymore.


	2. The Cool Down

_**FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA** _  
_**FEBRUARY 10, 1978** _

Icy rain pelts against the window.

Holden coughs into a tissue and groans when he spies the green phlegm.

Great.

This is just what he needs right now. He and Bill interview Jerry Brudos next week. They’re currently examining Kelvin Rogers’ case, trying to dive in deep and figure out how his mind works, why he killed those girls, how he maintained an otherwise completely normal life.

Fuck.

He leans his head back against the arm of the couch and wheezes through a ripple of chest pain.

A squeaking rattle whistles through his breathing, matching the tightness he feels in his lungs. He manages to unearth his inhaler from his slacks; he never got up once he came home. The two puffs he sucks in refuse to make a difference. Sweat pools on his forehead. Each millisecond is discomfort shredding through his core. He doesn’t know why his body chooses now to rebel, but it’s fairly irritating, considering the circumstances and especially considering last night.

The events from ‘dinner’ at Bill and Nancy’s haunt him. It hasn’t been a full 12 hours, and he is permanently embarrassed by his behavior. He understands why Bill wouldn’t talk to him on the car ride to his apartment or when, more awkwardly, he tucked Holden into their guest bed. Bill is irritated; he has every right to be. Holden hid something important – potentially life-threatening during the right (wrong) moments – that could’ve changed the course of anything.

Absolutely anything.

Holden can’t plan the attacks. He could’ve had one on the road, choking and spluttering while Bill drove without a care in the world until boom: It just happens. He could’ve had one during an interview, and then what? Cancel with the perpetrator? Let him watch Holden use an inhaler? Show him his weakness? He could’ve had one and not have his inhaler on him. It never happens anymore, but it happened once when he was seven; his mom picked him up from school because, once the attack was over, Holden couldn’t calm down, shocked by his own negligence.

And the worst part is that Holden knows he could’ve hurt himself or Bill or someone else because he refused to admit something important.

His father used to smoke constantly, much more often than Bill. Holden can’t remember seeing Father without a cigarette or cigar in between his lips. It wasn’t a secret that Arthur Ford wasn’t overly fond of his socially awkward, soft-spoken, geeky son. Arthur Ford all but smiled when he blew smoke in Holden’s face, and Holden coughed. His mom would never say anything because she’d never say anything, and he learned from a young age to never question his father.

Father understood Holden’s asthma. During his childhood, Holden’s doctor said his case was particularly severe. It never stopped Father from smoking in the house, whether it was when he listened to the radio in his recliner or during dinner. His mother only smoked outside, cautious and deliberate, but not Father.

So, how can Holden just expect Bill to stop smoking around him?

It’s absurd.

No one should have to cater to him. Bend over backwards to accommodate him.

He is more than capable of handling smoke.

Or so he thought.

Last night’s attack was the worst one he’s had in years.

But, coupling that with how he feels this morning, he’s sure he’s under the weather. Chills. Mucus. Rapid heartrate.

That doesn’t make him feel any better. He gave up his chance at keeping the asthma from Bill the moment he neglected to go home after work. If he hadn’t stayed to go over the Rogers’ case, Bill never would’ve found him. He never would’ve gone to Bill’s house and thrown up from coughing in front of Nancy and Brian. He never would’ve taken a nap in the guest bed, curled up away from the world and buried in a scent that felt like home.

He should’ve avoided this. He could’ve avoided this.

It’s way too late to take it back now.

Holden slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, blanket falling to the floor. He thinks about calling the office and telling Wendy he’s sick, but he can’t give in that easily. If he calls out, Bill will think he’s a pussy and lose all respect for him, if there is any at this point. He isn’t invalid. He can handle an eight-hour workday with a little bit of a fever and a cough. Wendy doesn’t know about the asthma, but he guesses Bill will tell her, given it is of fairly high importance.

After cranking the shower water as hot as it’ll go, Holden steps in and shivers. He braces himself against the wall with his hands, letting the water race over him. It doesn’t do much to sooth his aching chest. He almost falls asleep standing up. He shampoos and scrubs and hacks openly, thick snot dribbling down the back of his throat. For a moment, he once again reconsiders calling out, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to do that. Bill just found out about his secret mere hours ago, one that Holden’s been hiding since he met him back in early September. No one at the Bureau knows he has asthma. His mom was the only one who cared, and she died last December.

Bill could tell Shepard. It’s more than simply frowned upon to have asthma as a federal agent. It’s even worse, though, if one lies about it.

Oh God.

Holden leans over the sink and tries to regain control of his breathing but he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t Bill is going to tell Shepard Bill hates him and Shepard definitely hates him has a for a while now he gets it he is frustrating to be around but Shepard could tank his career because of this he could get fired because he lied he lied if they had known how bad his asthma could be he wouldn’t have stood a chance becoming an agent he could kiss his dreams goodbye

And he doesn’t want to kiss them goodbye he wants to work for the Bureau for the Behavioral Science Unit with Wendy and Bill he doesn’t want to screw this up but he already has and he’s paying the price and his chest hurts and he has to finish getting ready so he can catch Bill and explain before he sits down at his desk he wonders if he should let Bill get his cup of coffee first he’s tried to talk to Bill before he’s had his coffee before but Bill just lets out a series of grunts Holden can’t discern and then Holden asks more questions before Bill chucks folders at his head

Holden breathes.

He breathes.

He coughs, but he breathes.

Somehow, he manages to get dressed into a perfectly ironed and pressed suit, a long-sleeved shirt under his button up. He wears thick, black wool socks. He knows he’ll sweat, likely quite a bit, but that is better than freezing to death in the drafty basement. He yanks his nerves into a pile and tells them to shut up while he drives to work. The ride is long and cold, and he hopes he beats Bill there, but he doubts he will. He got up ten minutes later than usual, his internal alarm clock as congested as his lungs, and he had to relax on the bed for another five minutes before putting on his clothes. Socks and shoes were the hardest part; bending hurt his chest.

Holden pulls into the large parking lot of the Bureau. He drives over to the other side of the building, where the entrance to the basement is located.

There, he spies Bill’s car.

Fuck him.

Holden quickly parks, locks his vehicle, and practically sprints inside, narrowly avoiding slipping on ice from the wintry rain. The journey causes his lungs to shrink, morphing from adult sized to child sized within a matter of seconds. He coughs into his elbow the moment he enters the building. Thankfully, no one else is around. It’s perhaps the best perk of working in the basement. Holden isn’t big on crowds and chooses to ignore them to the best of his ability during road school or when he and a colleague grab drink. Being thrown into the basement isn’t what he expected when he started working with Bill, but he likes it better than hostage negotiation.

But he won’t be able to keep doing any of it unless he talks to Bill.

Except his lungs aren’t working. His chest is pounding outside of his body. He reaches for his inhaler and fumbles until he gets the cap off. The metallic medicine coats his throat, but, really, it doesn’t do much else. He slides down against the wall in the hallway mere feet away from the BSU office. His legs sprawl out in front of him.

“Holden?” he hears.

His vision blurry, he blearily looks up to find Bill hovering over him.

Not again.

“Kid?”

Holden wants to huddle in on himself, but his extremities are numb. He tries to curl and uncurl his fists, but they feel weak and resemble spaghetti with how flimsy the attempt is. He sniffles and coughs, and a shiver wracks his entire body. He should’ve have… He shouldn’t have come to work. Not like this. Bill’s gonna tell on him. Bill’s gonna tell…

“I’m not going to say anything, Holden, even though I sure as hell want to right now,” he hears.

Holden sticks his bottom lip out. Did Bill just read his mind? Does Bill have superpowers?

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Hospital? No. He doesn’t need that.

As he tries to tell Bill, he wheezes and hacks and coughs mucus into his palm.

Luckily, there’s a Kleenex wiping off his hand in seconds.

“Thanks, Kleenex…” he murmurs.

“Are you delirious?” Bill asks.

Holden shakes his head and chuckles. He coughs wetly.

There is a warm, meaty hand on his forehead and on his cheek and then on the back of his neck.

“You’re burning up, kid,” Bill whispers.

Holden smiles. “You sound funny… w-when you talk… whispery.”

“Talk whispery. Great. You are delirious. Is this normal with asthma? Or did your brain get dented in some time last night?”

“Not asthma,” he breathes out. “Sick.”

Holden sees that Bill is kneeling on the floor, a hand on his knee.

“So this isn’t asthma? I need to know what I should do.”

Holden shakes his head frantically. “Don’t tell on me.”

“I won’t say a word, kid.”

“Promise?”

Bill exhales loudly. “I promise.”

Holden sticks out his pinky. “Pinky promise?”

“I am not locking pinkies with you, but, yes, I promise.”

It’s enough. It’s enough for now.

“I need to go home,” Holden whispers, sticking out his bottom lip just a little bit further. His skin itches, and mucus rattles in his chest, and sweat pours off of him in tidal waves. The only thing that will even remotely make him feel better is to hole himself up in bed for a few days, at least until the worst of the coughing is over. “Please… Please…”

Bill nods. He gets to his feet, only to hunch over and slowly hook his hands around Holden’s waist. He hoists Holden off the floor; Holden hacks into his suit jacket.

“Inhaler. Inhaler. I n-need m–”

His inhaler is in his hand. Huh. Bill takes it from his grasp, with Holden still protectively in his arms, and proceeds to put the spout in his mouth. He presses down, and Holden inhales as deeply as he can.

He hears Bill let out a frustrated sigh after he pockets the inhaler. Holden shrivels in Bill’s embrace.

“Your lips are blue, kiddo. I gotta get you to the hospital.”

“B-Bill,” he manages to squeak out. Tears stream down his cheeks. He doesn’t know what is wrong with him or why he feels so scarily out of control of his emotions right now. “I’m sorry… I’m s-sorry. I should’ve… I should’ve t–”

“Stop,” Bill says. “It’s fine, Holden. But you’re going to have to let me call 911.”

“No!” Holden exclaims, voice broken and hoarse. “No. No. Bill, Shepard will f– ”

Bill cuts him off with, “Shepard won’t know a thing, okay? You just have pneumonia, got it?”

And that’s when Bill softly deposits Holden into a folding chair from the storage closet. Holden puts his head in his hands and hides his eyes while Bill calls 911. Something about chest pain and shortness of breath. He isn’t having a heart attack, but that’s what it sounds like. Now Shepard’s going to think he had a heart attack at work, and he’s going to get fired, and Bill will hate –

“I can hear you thinking, Holden.” He knew it; Bill has superpowers. “Everything will be okay.”

“But –”

“Shh. Stop talking. And sit up straight for me, alright?”

Bill has Holden remove his hands from his face and coaxes him until his spine is straight. The change in position makes it easier to breathe.

Tears swell in his eyes and pour down his flushed cheeks, but Bill puts his hand on his shoulder, warm and firm; Holden smiles weakly and waits for the ambulance.

* * *

It turns out to be a chest infection, which the doctor said is good. Good how? He isn’t sure, but he has a very low dose of pain meds running through his IV and an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose, and that’s enough for now. He can go home tomorrow, but he’ll have a brand new supply of breathing treatments, just like always after he gets sick. He can handle that; it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

What is out of the ordinary, though, is Bill sitting by his bedside, flipping through a magazine.

He doesn’t know why Bill is still here, not after everything Holden put him through yesterday and just a while ago.

“Will you please stop overthinking?” Bill asks suddenly.

Holden frowns. Bill doesn’t sound happy.

But should he sound happy?

He’s sitting in the hospital with his sick partner, a partner he doesn’t even want or like.

“Why do you think I don’t like you?” Bill inquires. He closes the magazine.

Holden flinches. Freezes. The monitors he’s connected to start to beep.

“Hey hey hey,” Bill says easily. “It’s just a question, kiddo.”

Why does he sound so gentle?

Holden takes a deep breath. He moves the oxygen mask down to his chin with shaky fingers.

“Do you like me?” he questions.

“Put that back on. We can still talk, but you need that,” Bill instructs.

He rolls his eyes but does what he’s told. “I’m sorry…”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Holden. But there’s gotta be something else going on here. Let’s start with this: You have asthma. How come I didn’t know?”

Holden shrugs. “No one knows.”

“No one? Not even your parents?”

“My mom’s dead. I haven’t spoken to my father in almost ten years.”

“And I’m assuming you never told anyone when you joined the Academy?”

He shakes his head and breaks eye contact.

Bill sighs and crosses his legs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Holden bites his bottom lip. It’s a complicated question with many possible answers, but it’s hard to funnel through all of them with Bill staring at him so intensely. What if he says the wrong thing? One wrong word, and he can fuck up whatever is left of their relationship.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he breathes out.

That sounds so stupid and pathetic. Holden kicks himself internally.

“Bother me? Why would this bother me?”

“Because you’re a smoker. You like to smoke. I can’t expect you to stop smoking just because I’m around… And I’m around you a lot.”

Bill chuckles. “Believe me, I know,” Bill jokes; Holden frowns. “I think you should’ve at least given me the chance to decide that for myself.”

“I would feel bad if you quit just because of me.”

“Kid, I’m never going to quit,” Bill says. “I’m just telling you that now. But I can choose to walk out of the room when you’re around so I don’t bother your thing.”

Holden fiddles with his hospital bracelet. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

“Hey. Look at me real quick,” Bill coaxes.

Holden glances up.

“I want to. I don’t want you to get sick when it’s easily preventable, and I don’t want you to have to hide from me this anymore.”

Tears swell in Holden’s eyes. “You shouldn’t have to edit your life for me, Bill. I’ll be okay. I can handle it.”

“Clearly not, kid. You’re in the hospital.”

“I was getting sick anyway.”

“Yeah? But the smoking makes it worse, right?”

Holden nods.

“So let me do you a favor, okay? I’ll leave the room if I need a smoke. If we’re on the road, we can stop somewhere real quick; I’ll go outside, and you can stay in the car. No more bars. There are all sorts of things we can do to help keep you healthy.”

“I’m really sorry,” Holden whispers, voice broken. Tears spill down his cheeks. He hiccups.

Bill instantly grabs his hand, the one without the IV. “There is nothing for you to be sorry for. You can’t help it.”

“You’re not gonna tell Shepard?”

“I swear. But we have to get this under control, and it has to stay that way. You have to tell me when you start feeling something, and we have to do what we can to fix it.”

Holden nods.

“Why don’t you try to rest? You’ve had a big day.”

Bill reaches over with his free hand and lowers the bed a bit; it’s much comfier that way.

Holden sinks down into the mattress as Bill pulls the covers up to his chin. He closes his eyes and lets out a small cough.

“Kid?” he hears.

“Hm?”

“It’s gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Holden smiles. “Thanks, Bill.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any other prompts or requests, feel free to send them my way!
> 
> I am @glennjaminhow on Tumblr.


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